


Pre-Florentine Nightmares

by HanniballisticMissile



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 04:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanniballisticMissile/pseuds/HanniballisticMissile
Summary: A mirror piece of Post-session notes, for the insanely talented zigzagwanderer.





	Pre-Florentine Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zigzagwanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Post-session notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724830) by [Zigzagwanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer). 



You may be released from the bludgeoning of flesh.

Not prior to the nightmare. Not inundated, as you are, in antlered dread.

But after. _After_.

Allow yourself.

The pleasure of unmooring: honour’s defeat.

Relinquish armour, sword and girdle.

Surrender malignancy to earth, like caskets to dirt; for what is buried can be thus exhumed; these are the rubrics of rebirth.

So, meet with the carnality of conquerors.

Feel, and feel him again; anchor your ship to his ocean.

Sit in the chair where he found you, dictating cortisol caresses, thighs chafing the blankets he draped you in.

Unloose indecency. Palm cotton. Reveal yourself.

Urgently turn, swallow the tremors of tubing, sucking down fingers like plastic. Read from gloved hands what you will; embrace the breach in self-conduct.

And know afterwards, you will beg hatred back, its burden smoother than guilt.

Go softly.

Recall the spectral acceptance.

Sugar your skin with his sweetness; each breath bears crackling violence, each touch holds flowering fancy, until your core is recut in his image, and it is not your body, but his, guiding the ventricle chambers: that pulsing obscenity of hearts.

Curse the simulacrum of need. Unspool the fathomless cravings.

Fist rigid skin; the nails are his remodelled teeth, his gentle, biting coolness. Rock into it, wetted tip against keratin, scratching his intense glare, and brand it into your bloodstream as he already did.

Release a moan. Helpless as dying.

Lick your lips, as if observed. Rewrite the past in his pearlescent gleam.

Wonder precisely how cruel he would have been with you.

How firm? How feral?

Would he have trained you to fuck yourself on his fingers? During opera, on the highest notes of arias?

In his office, after examining a crime scene?

Breathe slower, now.

His silence; make it hum in the still room. Speechless. Savouring.

Wanting to preserve you in paint.

Wanting to condition your brutality.

Wanting you beg and plead so filthily for your own submission, for his cock thrusting deep into the back of your mendacious damned throat.

It is all so absurd. To forgive such a betrayal.

To have the betrayer groan, and undress, and press his heat to your lips.

Grip at your curls. Mark your mouth as his territory.

You never saw him coming. But now you do.

And _how_ he comes: his fire fuelling your radiance; his colours muting your ache; kintsugi gilding your battle scars.

His design etched into your skin.

The only design now that matters.


End file.
